


and i know all the games you play because i play them too

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Detroit Tigers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-19
Updated: 2011-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:50:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The season ends with a whimper and bits of blue, red and silver confetti raining onto the field, and Rick has no idea where the fuck it’s coming from.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i know all the games you play because i play them too

**Author's Note:**

> I actually didn’t watch the game because I was stuck at a wedding. For the best, I suppose. This was supposed to be sadporn. Oops. 
> 
> Thanks to [](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/inplayruns/profile)[**inplayruns**](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/inplayruns/) for letting me ramble at her and looking this over. 
> 
> This was written to make myself feel better. I guess this is a PWP. 
> 
> There’s really no plot. Title from “Faith,” by George Michael.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

The season ends with a whimper and bits of blue, red and silver confetti raining onto the field, and Rick has no idea where the fuck it’s coming from. Most of the guys turn and head, single file, out of the dugout and down the concrete steps to the clubhouse, but some of them stick around, lean over the padded railing and watch the celebration.

Rick lingers in the stairwell, feeling like an afterthought, and twists his navy nylon jacket in his hands.

After a few long moments, Cabrera gets up and trundles by, head down, working his sore shoulder. Santos follows him, unused catcher’s gear tucked under his arm. Verlander and Martinez don’t move from the dugout railing, standing rigidly like stone statues, eyes riveted to the scene on the field.

Rick wonders why they’re forcing themselves to watch this celebration, wonders if it’s just masochism or something else. He decides not to bother them for an answer, though. He turns and heads down to the clubhouse to shower and change.

When Rick gets into the clubhouse, he can hear the patter of water against the shower tiles and teammates chattering, but it’s not joyous like it usually is, like it was for twelve straight days at the beginning of September. Santiago’s boom box is depressingly silent.

The doors to the clubhouse creak open and Leyland walks in, cleats scuffing on the carpet.

Leyland marches to the front of the clubhouse, in front of a whiteboard covered with gameday preparation notes and inspirational sayings, and clears his throat. “I just got one thing I wanna say,” he says, his deep, gravelly, two-packs-a-day voice wavering just the slightest bit. “I’ve won a World Series before and I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud of a team.” Leyland focuses on Avila, who’s flexing his legs and massaging his bad knees, and then Cabrera, and Verlander. “We’re going home with our heads up. Don’t forget that.”

He walks out of the clubhouse and Rick hears the gentle snick of the door to the manager’s office.

Rick grabs a towel, some soap, and some body-wash out of his locker. When he looks up, he sees Max watching him. He tries to act like he wasn’t, and looks away, but it’s too obvious. Rick wraps his arms around his toiletries and goes over to his locker.

“Hey.” Rick nods to him. “You okay?”

Max glances at him briefly, before slanting his gaze away, toward the wall. “I’m fine. Sucks, though.” He kicks out his foot and bends down to unlace his cleat. Rick can see clumps of dirt and grass stuck on the tiny metal spikes.

“Yeah, but we had a good year.” Rick leans his shoulder against Max’s locker.

Max tightens his hands around the laces until his knuckles crack. “I guess. Maybe I’ll feel better about it later.” He opens his hands and slides the shoe off.

“You heading to St. Louis?” Rick asks.

Max shrugs and shakes his head, still not meeting Rick’s eyes. “Probably Arizona. I got a place there. I’ll probably hang out there for a little while. You?”

“Back to Jersey,” Rick says.

Max finally looks at him. His shoulders are tense, his entire body tightly coiled. Rick thinks about putting a hand on his shoulder in reassurance, but decides against it. He gets out of the chair in front of his locker and tugs his jersey out of his belt.

“I guess I’ll see you in January?” Max looks at Rick again, hands poised over the buttons on the front of his gray jersey.

“Probably,” Rick says. He doesn’t want to think about the offseason yet. The wounds of losing are still too fresh, and who even knows what Dombrowski will do now that the season’s over?

Max nods and looks down at his hands. He hastily unbuttons his jersey and shrugs it off, tossing it in his locker haphazardly. “I’ll give you a call sometime.”

Rick forces his face into a smile he’s sure looks insincere. “That’d be cool.” He pushes away from Max’s locker and turns to follow a couple teammates to the showers, when a hand closes around his elbow, gently. He looks back.

Max drops his arm. “You wanna hang out a little before we split up for the winter?”

“Where? Detroit?” Rick asks.

Max shrugs. “Wherever.”

Rick laughs a little. “Okay, fine. Wherever.”

-

Wherever turns out to be Rick’s apartment in Birmingham. He’s mostly moved out at this point, but there are still some things left to pack up, and loose ends to tie up. Max sits on a cardboard box of Rick’s stuff, beer in hand, and watches as he pulls framed pictures down and lean them against the wall.

“Ryan and Vanessa moved out of their place before the season ended,” Max points out, raising his can and taking a sip. “You could’ve saved yourself a lot of trouble.”

Rick pick a hammer up off the floor and starts in on some nails. “You’re being exceptionally helpful today,” he quips.

“You’re welcome.” Max works on his beer and hides a smirk poorly.

Rick drops the hammer on the floor with a noisy thud, along with a couple bent nails, and wipes his hands off on the front of his t-shirt. “Are you drinking all my beer?”

“It’s not like you can take it back to New Jersey with you.” Max sets the can down on the floor and gets up to look at the cardboard box he was sitting on. “ ‘Nicknacks’?”

Rick walks over to him just to hit him in the shoulder. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Max blocks the next blow effortlessly. “Just—nicknacks?”

“You’re seriously gonna stand here and drink all my beer and insult me? Asshole.” Rick goes to punch him in the shoulder again, but Max grabs onto his fist and tugs. “Oh, come on, let go.”

Max wraps his hand around Rick’s wrist and bops him in the chin with his own fist. “Why’re you hitting yourself?”

“Dude, come on, are you twelve?” Rick tries to tug his wrist free, but Max tightens his grip.

“Yep. A twelve-year-old who you let drink all your beer.” Max tries to do it again, with both of Rick’s fists this time, but Rick dodges the blows and kicks him in the shin.

“I didn’t _let_ you drink all my beer,” Rick mutters, trying to pull his wrists back, to no avail. “If you break my wrist, I’m seriously going to kill you.”

“I’m not going to break your wrist, you big baby.” Max smirks at him, corners of his mouth turning up.

“I fight dirty. I grew up with two brothers, dude. And I’m Italian.” Rick tries his best to sound threatening, but, well.

Max just laughs at him. “I fight so dirty, you’ll be taking showers for weeks.”

“Ha ha.” Rick rolls his eyes.

“Wanna try me?” Max’s smirk expands to a full-fledged grin.

“I don’t think—”

Max jerks him close and kisses him. Rick doesn’t even have time to close his eyes or protest like he thinks he probably should. He does let go of Rick’s wrists though and Rick rubs at them.

He tries to say something, but his brain has fled the premises. There might be tire tracks.

“Well, like I said.” Max bends down and grabs his beer can.

“Like you said _what_?” Rick asks.

Max takes a sip of beer. “I fight dirty.”

Rick stares at him, still rubbing at his wrist. “You kissed me to prove a point?”

“Yeah,” Max says, muffled, mostly into his beer can.

“I think I hate you,” Rick says, dropping his arms to his sides.

“Well, there you go.”

Rick strides over in three big steps and snatches the beer out of his hand. “You don’t just kiss people.”

Max shrugs. “Sure you do. Where’s the surprise, otherwise?”

“What? You don’t just surprise people like that,” Rick says, putting the can aside.

“So, I take it you just announce your intentions? ‘I’m Rick Porcello, and I’m planning on kissing you in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1—’ ”

“No! But, you know what I mean,” Rick interrupts, scowling.

“I think you’re just mad ’cause I did it first,” Max says, nonchalantly.

“What?”

“I stole your thunder,” Max says, pretending to inspect his nails.

“I can’t say kissing you ever crossed my mind before,” Rick says.

“But now it has?” Max looks up, unable to keep the jackass smirk off his face.

Rick scowls some more. “Fuck you.”

“That’s what she s—”

Rick kicks him in the shin, but not hard enough to hurt because he’s a nice person. “I really do hate you right now.”

“Nah. If you hated me you would’ve made me leave,” Max says.

Rick supposes he has a point. “No, I really hate you.”

“Liar.” Max grabs onto Rick’s wrist and Rick thinks _Oh, we’re doing this again?_ “Personally, I think we should practice a little. Before we split up for the offseason.” He tugs gently on Rick’s wrist.

“Is this your idiot manchild way of saying you like me?” Rick asks.

“Pretty much.” Max keeps his hand locked around Rick’s wrist, but his fingers are loose. Rick could pull his arm back if he wanted.

“What makes you think I’m interested in _you_?”

“You haven’t said you’re not,” Max says, rubbing his thumb on the soft underside of Rick’s wrist, where his pulse is. “And, I don’t know, I guess I just had a feeling.”

“It took you two years to act on it?” Rick raises his eyebrows. He’s not sure if he should be impressed or disappointed.

“I was gathering empirical evidence for analysis before I made my move,” Max says, leaning in and sliding his hand from Rick’s wrist, up his arm.

“Empirical _what_?” Rick hardly breathes. “You’re such a nerd.”

“You are too, though.” Max grins. They’re standing very close together now, close enough that Rick can see the stubble on Max’s neck and the razor nicks on his chin. “So, was I right? I was, wasn’t I?”

“Well, yeah,” Rick says, because . . . Yeah. He kind of likes Max. It’s a bit of a relief to know, after two years, that it’s reciprocated, but also kind of annoying. If he’d known earlier that Max felt the same way, that’s two years they could’ve spent together, or at least fucking around.

“Good.” Max leans in the final few inches and kisses him again.

It’s different, better this time. Rick remembers to close his eyes, and he wraps a hand around the back of Max’s neck to hold him closely. He tastes faintly of beer, but Rick doesn’t mind. Max’s hands wander down Rick’s back, and one of them pushes under his t-shirt.

Yeah, this is pretty nice. Making out with Max is a decent consolation prize.

Max breaks the kiss, a hand still under the back of Rick’s shirt. “Do you wanna? Or—?”

Rick stares at him. “What? Are you asking if I want to fuck around?”

“Yeah.” Max squeezes his hand briefly on Rick’s back.

“Okay,” Rick says, smiling. He grabs onto Max’s hand and tugs him toward the bedroom.

Somehow, they manage to shed most of their clothes on the way to the bed, but Rick is kind of preoccupied. Max is right behind him, a hand on his hip, mouthing at the back of his neck. Rick almost trips on one of their shirts and stumbles, landing on his stomach in his bed.

“Convenient,” Max says, leaning over him.

Rick rolls onto his back. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up.”

Max kisses him on the side of his neck, down his shoulder, and drags his lips over the slope of his collarbone. “You hear me laughing?” He sits back and undoes his jeans, pushing them down his hips and then kicks them off, onto the floor.

Rick tries not to ogle too much, but it’s kind of hard; Max is a good looking guy. Rick wriggles his way out of his own pants and pushes a hand into his boxers to stroke himself.

“I kind of, uh, this is embarrassing,” Rick stammers.

“What?” Max asks, crawling over him, straddling his thighs. Rick is suddenly very conscious of the proximity of their bodies and his cock in his hand. He slips his hand out of his boxers and fiddles with the elastic waistband.

Rick wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and then sucks them between his teeth, chews a little. “I want you to, uh, you know.”

Max grabs hold of both of Rick’s wrists and pins them down on the mattress, above his head. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

Rick tugs ineffectually at Max’s hands. “I’ve never had to ask anybody to fuck me before,” he admits.

“I’m not just anybody,” Max says. He might even be gloating a little bit, Rick thinks.

“That was cheesy.”

“I know.” Max lets go of his wrists and braces himself above Rick. “That’s what you want? You want me to fuck you?”

Rick sucks his lips between his teeth again. “Uh. Yeah.”

“You got condoms and stuff?” Max reaches down and rubs the joint of Rick’s hip, wraps his hand around it as if testing his grip. Kind of weird, but Rick doesn’t mind.

“Yeah, they’re in the drawer there.” Rick points to the nightstand beside the bed.

“Convenient,” Max says again, with a wry smile. He leans over Rick, pulls open the drawer, and fumbles around. He grabs a packet of Kleenex and waves them at Rick, grinning lopsidedly at him.

Rick swipes the Kleenex out of his hand. “Asshole. Like you don’t ever jerk off.”

“Didn’t say that I didn’t.”

Rick’s brain kind of fast forwards through the condom and lube, and the preparation which, while nice, is kind of boring. He’s still pretty wound up from earlier, and he feels impatient, excited, giddy, which almost never happens. Rick’s probably the most even-keeled, boring person he knows, and right now he’s about to jump out of his skin.

Then Max presses his mouth to Rick’s throat, and kisses him there. His hair scratches under Rick’s chin, and his stubble scrapes on his neck. He sucks the soft skin of Rick’s neck between his teeth and it stings, but it’s a pleasant kind of sting.

One of his hands finds Rick’s hip and squeezes. Rick thinks, That must be my cue. He reaches down, curls a hand around the small of Max’s back and draws him closer.

It’s an uncomfortable fit, at first, but it’s not like Max is huge or anything. He just doesn’t do this a whole lot, at least not during the season.

“You good?” Max reaches up and fusses with Rick’s hair, pushing it away from his forehead.

Rick scrunches up his face. “Yeah, I’m fine. What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” Max pulls his hand away. “Okay.”

Max starts moving his hips slowly, and it gets better then, not so uncomfortable. Actually, it feels kind of nice. Rick’s feet slip on the silky sheets, and he wonders briefly about thread count. Then Max does this thing, pulls Rick’s hips down and angles _his_ just so, and that’s enough thinking for the rest of the night.

Rick’s always been very conscious of how he sounds. When he gives interviews, he turns over phrasing and diction a hundred times in his head before he strings words together to form sentences. He enunciates so carefully as not to sound stupid, that people tell him he doesn’t have a Jersey accent anymore.

Rick can feel his control starting to slip and he grasps for it, but it’s just beyond his reach now.

Oh, well.

He’s sure he sounds stupid now, gasping and grunting, and saying things that don’t make much sense at all, but Max doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, Rick’s non-sensical ramblings are spurring him on to go even harder.

Max slows his movements and kisses up Rick’s neck. He reaches up and tips his fingers against Rick’s cheek, turns Rick’s head so that their mouths meet.

“You good?”

Rick manages a slight nod. “Yeah.”

Max’s warm breath brushes over Rick’s lips, and he breathes in.

“Okay. Good.” Max pushes his forehead against Rick’s shoulder, slides his hands down to his hips, and starts fucking him hard, again. Rick digs his fingers into Max’s shoulder and curls his toes in the bedsheets.

Rick starts listening for the sounds their bodies make when they come together, skin against skin, the creak of the mattress, the rustle of sheets. Max mutters something under his breath. It’s all kind of overwhelming.

Then Max wraps his hand around Rick’s cock and starts stroking, and Rick thinks he might come apart under him. Maybe he’s still a little wound up over the loss.

Rick feels his orgasm creeping up on him and he pushes his hips up, against Max’s hand, impatient. Max seems to get it, though, and he starts working Rick over even faster. Rick can feel himself teetering on the edge, heart jackrabbiting its way out of his chest.

Rick comes all over his chest and Max’s hand with a high-pitched noise he’d be embarrassed by if he could bring himself to care. He doesn’t, though. He just had awesome sex with Max Scherzer.

Max wipes his hand on the bedsheet—Rick makes up his mind to just toss them before he moves out—and wraps a hand around the back of Rick’s neck to pull him in for another kiss. He slows the stroke of his hips, fucks Rick through the last of his orgasm, and a little while later, he comes too. Rick feels him come, which is kind of weird, but also kind of nice. He has a hand on Max’s back, and he rubs in big, loopy circles while Max drops his sweaty forehead against Rick’s shoulder and breathes into his neck.

They’re quiet for a few minutes. Rick listens to Max’s breathing, feels it on his skin, and keeps rubbing.

“So, that was something,” Max finally says.

“Yeah, it was,” Rick says. He stills his hand on Max’s back.

“What about the sheets?” Max rubs his nose against Rick’s shoulder.

“I’ll get new ones,” Rick says, turning his head slightly, getting a mouthful of Max’s hair.

“Sorry about the mess.” Max kisses him on the shoulder.

“No, you’re not.” Rick snorts softly.

Max kisses him on the shoulder again, lingers. He pulls back and Rick immediately misses the warmth. Max smiles at him, even looks a bit smug. “No, I’m not.”

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
